I saw it, long ago.
Withered and wrinkled.
I asked her, then, if my veins would look the same as hers when I was her age.
She laughed, apologetically, but I was serious.
I wanted those hands.
And I’m beginning to see them, now.
Ever so slightly.
The pronounced blue protrusions.
The fragile cells in-between.
The soft cover of a life, well-lived.
Captured by Katie McCracken
I wish my mind could draw a picture for you, of the hand that is so familiar to me. It’s feminine, thin, elderly, bony.
I asked her if my hands would look like that if I kept playing the piano and she laughed. But here’s the secret: I wanted them.
Those hands represented practice. They represented wisdom. They sounded like soulful music and felt like velvet.
Mary Brooke taught me piano for 5 years but her wisdom endures.
Age is beauty. It is fortune. It is wealth.
Mature hands represent years lived. Years practiced.
Wrinkles are beautiful. Wrinkles are comfortable.